There were things Andrew used to love.

Late-night ramen runs. Dumb cartoons at 2 a.m. His favorite strawberry lip balm. The feeling of his hands under a warm hoodie. Music turned up too loud through cheap earbuds. Ranting for twenty minutes about the smallest details in his philosophy texts while pacing in circles.

And touch. Especially touch. He craved it — closeness, warmth, someone’s arm brushing his in passing. He used to pull Nathanel in by the collar without warning, press his forehead to his chest like it was home. He wanted to be close all the time. Sometimes too close.

But now? Now everything was numb. Food tasted like wet paper. Cartoons annoyed him. Music gave him headaches. His hoodie felt like a blanket wrapped around someone who wasn’t there.

And touching himself — something he used to do to think of Nathanel, to feel just a little closer on the nights they were apart — didn’t even work anymore.

No release. No relief. Just an ache that didn’t move. He stopped trying after the third time. He stopped laughing. He stopped showing up. The next time he came to class, he sat in the back.

Andrew never sat in the back. But now he did — hood up, eyes down, pretending he wasn’t being watched.

And Nathanel did watch. Even as he continued to write on the board, even as he answered students’ questions with that same calm tone. He was watching. He could see how Andrew didn’t open his notebook. Didn’t write anything down. How he didn’t even blink during most of the lecture, as if nothing was reaching him.

He looked thinner. Worn down. His face, which used to glow with the kind of reckless energy Nathanel couldn’t resist, was dull now — like he was waiting for someone to notice he was breaking and just… didn’t. Nathanel clenched the chalk until it cracked in his hand. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t call on Andrew’s name even once. Because he was stubborn. Because he told himself this was better. Because if Andrew had stopped smiling, maybe that was the consequence of getting too close. And yet— Something inside Nathanel cracked when Andrew stood up to leave and didn’t even look back.

The hallway outside the lecture hall was quiet after dark.

Most students had gone home. Papers were being graded behind office doors. Lights were flickering above empty vending machines.

Andrew was sitting on the floor by a staircase, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them. He wasn’t crying.

That was the worst part. He was just... staring. At nothing. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, lip raw from biting.

Nathanel should’ve kept walking. Should’ve passed like he always did — polite nod, cold distance, nothing more. But this time, he didn’t.

This time, he stopped. "Andrew." The name left his mouth before he could stop it. Sharper than intended.

Andrew didn’t look up. Nathanel stepped closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

“You’re not okay.” That earned a bitter laugh. “Guess I’m failing emotional regulation too.”

“You’re failing my class.” “And apparently that’s the only thing you care about.”

That hit. Too hard. Too real. Nathanel clenched his jaw.

“This isn’t about school anymore,” he said quietly. Andrew finally looked up — eyes red but dry, face hollow. “I tried,” he said. “I tried everything. To be perfect. To make you happy. To make you feel good. To matter.”

“You already mattered,” Nathanel said. “You still do.” “Then why didn’t you say anything?” Andrew’s voice cracked. “Why did you just let me disappear?”

Nathanel stepped closer. “Because I thought giving you space was what you wanted.” No,” Andrew whispered. “I wanted you.” There it was. The crack in the wall Nathanel built. The sharp inhale that made everything real. He knelt in front of Andrew, not caring who could walk by. His hands hovered — not touching, not yet — just there. “You overwhelmed me,” Nathanel admitted. “But not because you were too much. Because I didn’t know how to be loved like that.” Andrew blinked. “I’ve spent years building walls that you knocked down in weeks,” he continued but still had a dark gaze